


coming around again

by sarapod (four_right_chords)



Series: Circle Game [1]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: Bisexuality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 08:02:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19127920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/four_right_chords/pseuds/sarapod
Summary: Josh and Sam, over the years and decades.“I'm not gay!” Josh protests. “I like women!”“Sure you do,” Sam says patiently. He stops in the middle of putting on his shirt, blatantly exploiting how much Josh likes the way he looks in his undershirt. “But you like this more.”And there's nothing to say to that, so Josh doesn't.[This used to be called "Circle Game." That's the title of the series now.]





	coming around again

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beloved beta, who is not in fandom and hates West Wing and read this anyway.

_ Phoenix, 1984 _

Josh knew what was going on with him by the time he met Sam, both of them summer interns for some Congressman from Arizona. He knew what it meant that sometimes he'd lose the thread of his sentence just when Sam entered a room. He knew why he liked looking at the lines of Sam's suits, knew that he liked the way Sam looked at the end of the day even better, tie loosened and shirtsleeves rolled up. And sometimes, when he'd lose track of himself and look at Sam a second too long, he'd swear he saw Sam looking back.

It happens in a hotel bar, like so many of the most important moments in their lives. Unlike those moments it happens by inches, Josh leaning closer and closer over the course of an evening until Sam laughs, finishes his drink, slips a hand around Josh's arm and says, “Hey. Come upstairs with me.” Josh, who had frozen the moment Sam touched him, raises his eyebrows. Sam smiles and nods. “Yeah.”

That Sam has a hell of a lot more experience with men than Josh does is evident the moment they get to the hotel room: Josh hears the door click shut nearly simultaneous to Sam pushing him against it, one hand coming behind Josh's head to protect his skull and the other coming around his waist. Sam's hand spans the space between his shoulder blades. Josh observes this at the same time that he observes Sam's mouth on his, which is about when his brain shorts out. He gets it working again just long enough to stutter, “I haven't really - ” while Sam's mouth is on his neck, causing Sam to chuckle (it's muffled  _ in Josh's skin _ ), press a kiss where seconds ago he'd been working a mark, and mutter, “You're doing fine,” before getting back to it. And that's pretty much that; that's pretty much all there is to say.

They take things slow, or slower than Josh expected. He doesn't know what he expected. He didn't expect Sam, who is as poised and confident in bed as he is out of it; who goes at Josh's body with single-minded fierceness, yet often seems to have no agenda of his own outside of figuring out what makes Josh scream; who, within about a week, has effectively discerned how to turn Josh inside out without losing his own composure for longer than the span of time it takes for him to come. Josh is baseline half out of his mind with wanting everything he's been imagining his whole life, but Sam takes his time, is diligent with his efforts until he's certain Josh is ready for the next step. All of which is a fancy way of saying that the first time Sam fucks him, he eats Josh out until Josh's throat is so wrecked from gasping and saying “please” that the sound he makes when Sam finally enters him is legitimately troubling.

He doesn't come the first time. He does come the second time, which is a few hours after the first time. He comes every time after that too. Once, they're laying around after, Sam idly running his fingers through Josh's hair, and Josh isn't thinking as he says, “Jesus. How are you so good at that? I mean - ” He runs a hand over his face, reaching for some composure that isn't coming. “It's kinda the best thing in the world,” he says, smiling and self-conscious. “I don't know how anyone who does that doesn't want to do it all the time.” Years later, he'll hear Leo talk about being an alcoholic and be a little disturbed at how much it sounds like what he told Sam that night, but right now Josh is 23 and his entire life is unspooling in front of him and he thinks he might be willing to handle anything if he can just keep feeling like this.

But Sam just laughs, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and looking for his pants. “Josh,” he says fondly. He stands up, zips and buttons and buckles. “You are really, really gay.”

Josh picks his head up, momentarily startled. “I'm not gay!” he protests. “I like women!”

“Sure you do,” Sam says patiently. He stops in the middle of putting on his shirt, blatantly exploiting how much Josh likes the way he looks in his undershirt. “But you like this more.”

And there's nothing to say to that, so Josh doesn't.

It's a good summer.  
  


* * *

_  
New Haven, 1987 _

“I hear it’s gorgeous in the summer,” Josh says. He's laying on his back on the floor, legs up the wall and fiddling with the phone cord. “Sunflowers as far as the eye can see.” 

"Sunflowers give you hay fever,” Sam points out. “Pretty much all plants give you hay fever, actually.”

“Which is exactly why you should come with me! I need the reminder,” Josh wheedles.

Sam sighs. “You know I want to,” he says, and Josh silently fist-pumps. “It’s just - Katie. She doesn’t really like politics.”

Josh rolls his eyes aggressively and sends up a prayer of thanks for the fact that Sam can’t see his face. “What are you doing with someone who doesn’t like politics?” he says instead. “Has she met you? Does she have you confused with some other guy?”

Sam laughs, but it's tired, like he's had this argument a million times with a million other people. “She's going to work at Lowell,” he says, as though Josh hasn't heard this before. As though Katie hasn't known where she was working after law school since last summer. “She’d like it if I was at Dewey.”

Josh huffs out a breath. “Well,” he says. “There's always a place for you on a likely unsuccessful Congressional campaign in North Dakota,” and he's laughing by the end of it. “If it doesn't work out at Dewey goddamn Ballantine.”

“Thanks for that,” Sam says. Josh can hear him smiling.

North Dakota is, in point of fact, beautiful in the summer. The sunflower fields are as reported. Josh's hay fever is completely out of control, and there's a box of tissues at his elbow at all times. He's working the phone about two weeks after he started, trying to secure Lorraine Larsen's next appearance - she's never held elected office before, so she's just Lorraine, or Mrs. Larsen - and he guesses he's waving his arms around a little, and his tissues just absolutely go flying.

“You hear that, Jennifer?” Josh yells. His relationship with the aide who manages Lorraine's calendar is actually pretty friendly, if weirdly adversarial. “You got me so riled up I knocked my tissues into the next millennium.” The tissues have become a running joke among higher-level staffers (of which Josh is one, because Lorraine Larsen is new to the entire concept of electoral politics). 

“Better go find them then,” Jennifer snorts, “or you'll have to go out on disability.” It would be hard to overstate how utterly pathetic Josh was during his first few days in North Dakota. 

“Yuk it up,” he says. “I'll talk to you later.” He hangs up and crawls under his desk to retrieve the tissues, where he sees that they have somehow managed to land under the neighboring desk, which is boxed in between his desk and the wall. Jesus.

He's more than halfway under his desk, fingertips just grazing the box, when he hears, “When you said ‘there's always a place for you,’ I gotta say, that is not what I expected.”

Josh backs out from under the desks as fast as he can, slamming his head into a drawer on the way, and stands, clutching his skull in one hand. “Sam?!”

It's Sam. He's smiling. “Hey Josh.”

Josh is clinging with his fingernails to the knowledge that they are surrounded by near-strangers, which is the only thing keeping him from launching himself at Sam. It's been a year since he last saw Sam, a year of long-distance phone calls between North Carolina and New Haven following one weekend in Manhattan last summer (Sam was interning at Dewey and Josh was doing political work in Delaware, and he basically ran away for 36 hours). And it's not like - they're not - they haven't been, really, not since that summer in Phoenix, with the exception of a night here and there, but Sam is still Josh's favorite person, and seeing him unexpectedly is a shock to Josh's system. 

Instead of doing what he wants to do, which is no more and no less than climb Sam like a tree, Josh gives him a nice hetero handshake and says, like an idiot, “You came.”

“I was told there’d be a job,” Sam responds, “but honestly, Josh, if your idea of a job is crawling around on the floor, I'd just as soon go back to New York.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Josh responds. He's grinning, also like an idiot. He links his hands together behind his neck to avoid reaching for Sam again. “Let me introduce you to some people.”

Sam's staying at a hotel until they can set him up with campaign housing, so that's where they drink that night, reasoning that they don't know where the fuck they are or how to get a cab (“the cabs are probably just draft animals painted yellow,” Josh had snarked, to which Sam deadpanned, “why do you assume they'd be painted yellow?”), so they might as well stay close to home. They've eaten some truly appalling hotel food and are drinking Coors, which Josh hates, and the conversation has reached a comfortable lull when Josh swallows his pride and asks, “So what about Katie?”

Sam shakes his head, swallows his beer. “Nah,” he says. “She thought I should get a ‘real job.’” He shrugs. “It's okay. It wasn't that serious.”

“Not that serious?” Josh says incredulously. “Man, you were together for like … all of law school.” 

Sam shrugs. “Strange bedfellows,” he says. He doesn't say anything else.

They eventually order another round, and Sam grins as the waiter’s walking away. “You sure you can handle that?” he asks. “I'd hate to have to carry you upstairs.”

“It's only the third round!” Josh protests, ignoring the way his whole body lit up when Sam said ‘upstairs.’ He was hoping, but he didn't want to presume. As far as he’d known before about twenty minutes ago, Sam was with Katie and it was pretty serious. “I can handle three beers.”

Sam raises his eyebrows, sips his beer. “Suit yourself,” he says. But he's smiling the whole time. 

It's Fargo, so Josh is careful about how he looks at Sam, but he's looking. Sam is unfairly beautiful, always has been. When Josh more or less threw himself at Sam that first time, it was with a healthy sense of pure disbelief that someone who looked like Sam could want him. But he knows what Sam's like now; knows where his insecurities live, his imperfections. It's not like they make Sam less beautiful, but they do make him somewhat less incandescent. Josh can look at him without burning up now. So he’s looking right at him when, after they split the bill, Sam claps him on the shoulder and says, steady and even, nothing anyone who overheard would remark upon, “Come upstairs with me?”

The ease with which Sam slips back into Josh's bed is probably something Josh should have seen coming, because it's honestly like he never left. And it's been awhile - they didn't have sex last summer, Sam appearing to be pretty serious about Katie and never reaching for Josh, even after Josh ran away to New York to see him - but Sam still remembers how to touch him. Josh still wants him more than he strictly knows how to talk about. The sex is as good as ever, which is to say the sex is consistently among the best Josh has ever had. It's only afterwards that things shift. They're laying in bed, kind of facing each other, and Sam strokes Josh's hair back, the gesture gentle and uncomplicated.

“I missed you,” he says, “I missed this,” and Josh stops breathing.

They've known each other for three years, been fucking just about as long, and Sam's never said anything like that before. Josh has never not wanted him, can't remember what it's like to not hold Sam apart in his mind, but Sam's never said  _ anything  _ before.

He turns his head, presses his lips to the inside of Sam's wrist where Sam's fingers are still stroking through his hair. “I, uh,” he says. Laughs at himself. This is the biggest thing he's ever said to another person. “I always miss you.” He's staring at the sheets, can't handle what Sam might look like right now. 

He feels Sam's hand pressing gently, and then he's looking at Sam's unfairly beautiful face. And it's not - it's none of the things Josh was afraid it might be. 

“Yeah,” Sam whispers, and pulls Josh in for a kiss.

They're still two guys working on a political campaign in North Dakota, and honestly, Josh wouldn't have had a public relationship with Sam if they were working on a political campaign in San Francisco. But things change after that. For one, they're basically inseparable, and the joy rolling off them in waves is bringing a whole new fire to their work. Sam writes for Lorraine, and she might have all the charisma of a banana slug (she's terrible, but she's given Josh the title of campaign manager and total control of her virtually nonexistent budget, and he'll take it, he'll do whatever it takes to get noticed by the people who matter), but even she can't suck the life out of Sam's words. Josh starts a vaguely defined system of blow jobs as recompense for the word salad Lorraine makes of Sam's speeches, the end result of which is Josh gives  _ a lot _ of blow jobs that summer. They go to bed together most nights and wake up together most mornings and it's good. It’s the closest to an actual relationship Josh has ever had.

But then summer turns into fall, and the most remarkable thing happens: Lorraine starts trending in the polls.

“Lorraine is a bad candidate,” Josh says into Sam's chest one night. 

“Mhm,” he hears from above him.

“Usually the problem is all flash no substance, but Lorraine is neither flash nor substance,” he continues.

“Nope.”

“So how the hell is she leading by two points?!” Josh pushes himself up on an elbow, looking at Sam in consternation.

Sam pauses. Considers. Then he says, “I think you are very, very good at your job, and I am very, very good at mine.”

Josh groans and collapses back onto the familiar, welcoming surface of Sam's chest. “It better be worth it,” he mutters. “Getting this empty skirt elected had better be worth it.” Sam doesn't say anything, just continues to work his fingers through Josh's hair.

The weeks pass and Lorraine's numbers continue their inexorable creep, to the point where Josh is starting to think she might actually win. He’s also starting to get calls from people in the party about opportunities after his North Dakota sojourn is over, win or lose. But at the same time - Josh can’t tell if he’s losing his mind or if Sam really has seemed more and more distant as their victory seems more and more assured. He knows he’s crazy when the election’s in six weeks and Sam is on his knees in Josh’s bedroom, hands glued to Josh’s hips and mouth stringing him out like a junkie seeking a fix, arms holding him like a promise afterward. He knows he’s on to something when Lorraine has an extremely successful rally and Sam is nowhere to be found, only turning up in the campaign office the next day with flimsy excuses about a sick aunt he needed to help with some paperwork. The main thing he knows is that he’s turning into a woman, and he doesn’t like it. 

Eight days out from the election, Josh hangs up the phone in his office at headquarters and yells, “Sam!” Sam appears from around a corner, pad in hand and shirt open over a campaign t-shirt adorned with two interlocking L’s. Josh thinks that after this campaign is over, he’s going to burn every piece of Larsen apparel he owns.

“What’s up?” Sam asks. He sounds distracted. 

“Close the door,” Josh says. Sam does. “What are you doing after the campaign?”

They haven’t actually talked about ‘after the campaign’ yet. Josh is looking for jobs and everyone knows it - the candidate already offered him a position on her staff which he respectfully declined, recommending instead two staffers whose knowledge of the local political landscape far outpaced his own while carefully avoiding any expression of how much he’s come to loathe North Dakota - but Sam’s a mystery. That he won’t remain in Fargo as Lorraine’s speechwriter seems clear, but beyond that, Josh has no idea. He’s maybe been avoiding the topic. So he’s holding his breath a little bit as he asks the question, meaning he doesn’t miss the way Sam adjusts his glasses and glances at the floor as he says, “I’m really not sure.”

“Come to Washington with me,” Josh says, and Sam’s head jerks up.

“What?” He sounds mystified.

“I just got off the phone with Kieszlowski,” Josh says. He’s grinning. “The rep from Chicago. The DCCC gave him my name, he wants me to manage his slate on the Hill. Come with me.”

Sam raises his eyebrows, smiling ironically. It’s not the best thing Josh has ever seen. “And do what?” he asks. “Write sample press conference scripts for the Congressman while trying not to steal too obviously from Carl Sandburg?”

Josh shrugs. “I don’t know. We’ll figure it out. I’ll introduce you to Kieszlowski, he’ll love you. Just come with me.” He stresses the last three words. They’re in the office, so he can’t wrap Sam in his arms and kiss him stupid, which is his preferred method of persuasion, but he thinks it comes across in his eyes how badly he wants Sam with him in Washington, how much he’s willing to do to find Sam a place. 

Sam sighs, runs his hand through his hair. “Let’s revisit this after the election,” he says. “Right now I have to focus on this.” He waves his notepad in the air and turns to head back to his office. He stops in the doorway, sending Josh’s heart into his throat, but he just smiles tiredly and says, “Thanks,” before returning to his office to do whatever it is he does in there.  
  


* * *

  
Lorraine wins. 

She actually wins. She doesn’t just beat the incumbent, who in fairness was accused of stealing enormous amounts of money from his family’s insurance brokerage (hence why Lorraine was able to get in the race at all), she trounces him. No one is surprised by the time it happens, and while part of Josh is proud as hell, the rest of him is sick with worry because Sam hasn’t stayed with him any of the past three nights. Things are going to hell with them, Josh can see it, and he has no idea how to stop it. 

He gets a moment with Lorraine after the local NBC affiliate calls the election for her, though, and for that moment he’s genuinely happy, pumping her hand enthusiastically. “You ran a good campaign, Joshua,” she says. “Are you sure I can’t interest you in a job in one of my shiny new offices?” She’s grinning, and for all that Josh thought she was a terrible candidate, unintelligent and uninspired, she’s a Democrat who won North Dakota for the good guys and is going to be a reliable vote in the House. And she’s a decent person, kind to children and respectful to her staff. It could be worse than Lorraine Larsen. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says. “But Becky is far better equipped for that than I am, and everyone here knows it.”

“You’re not wrong,” Lorraine says, “but I just - Sam!”

Josh’s body floods with adrenaline at her exclamation, and he turns to look where she’s looking. Sam is behind him. 

“I just wanted to congratulate you, Congresswoman,” Sam says, and Lorraine laughs as she shakes his hand.

“Politics is going to miss you, Sam,” she says. “I’ve never sounded so articulate in my life as I did these past few months. I suppose Dewey Ballantine is going to have the most beautifully written memoranda in New York.”

Sam laughs. Josh sees him laugh, but he couldn’t for any amount of money say what it sounds like or repeat what Sam says next, because his brain is echoing with what Lorraine just said.  He cuts into their conversation, manages an “excuse me ma’am, and congratulations again,” before turning tail and nearly running out of the room.

He makes it to the sidewalk and is considering his next move when a hand lands on his upper arm, turning him around. It’s Sam, and he’s saying, “I was going to tell you, I just - ” but Josh cuts him off, grating out, “Not here.”

Sam stops mid-sentence. “Sorry?” he says.

Josh’s teeth are clenched as he says, “I’m not having this conversation with you on the fucking sidewalk outside campaign headquarters, Sam.”

Sam’s face does - it does something, Josh doesn’t know what, and Sam says, “We’re both really good at our jobs, Josh, but I can’t do mine if it just means I’m getting the Lorraine Larsens of the world elected.”

“Your problem is Lorraine?” Josh whisper-yells, his ten-seconds-ago declaration of not doing this on the sidewalk forgotten. “Your problem is Lorraine. Sam, she’s  _ fine _ , she’s a Democrat in North fucking Dakota, and - ”

“I know,” Sam says, and his eyes are empty. “I know. And that’s fine, that’s good. We need every Democrat we can get. But I can’t do it. This isn’t a sport, it’s the fate of the nation. It’s my life. And it’s not worth the sacrifice for me unless the candidate is the real thing.”

Josh laughs hollowly, turns his back to Sam and puts his hands on his hips. He’s staring at the sidewalk where snow is starting to collect. It’s cold as hell. It’s Fargo in November. Sam’s hand on his lower back is hot.

“Please,” Sam says softly.

Josh doesn’t know what Sam’s asking for. He’s staring at the sidewalk, and this is it. This is the end of his first real love affair. 

Sam’s fingers have started moving back and forth, gently and oh so slow. It feels incredibly dangerous; Josh flinches, knocking Sam’s hand off, but says just as quickly, “Come back with me, I think you left your - some stuff.” He knows Sam will hear what he means. 

The house Josh has been staying in is a ten minute walk from campaign headquarters, long enough for his thoughts to start chewing on each other but not long enough to rethink this; Josh could be staying in Memphis and it wouldn’t be a long enough walk to rethink this. When they reach his room, Sam is on him as soon as the door closes, pressing himself against Josh’s back and affixing his mouth to the spot on Josh’s neck that never fails to make him weak. It isn’t failing now either. Josh tips his head back along Sam’s shoulder, reaches behind him for Sam’s hips (Sam’s hands are in Josh’s front pockets), and hangs on. 

When he wakes up the next morning, Sam is gone.

The next time Josh sees him is eight months later, on a trip to New York with the Congressman. They’ve talked since North Dakota, a few awkward and aborted phone calls that all made Josh want to get blindingly drunk, but there’s no world in which Josh doesn’t try to see Sam if he’s in town. They meet at a bar near the Financial District called Mudville 9. Every man in there is wearing a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the tie loosened, and even though the men themselves range in color from paler than Josh to dark enough to disappear in a shadow, he feels for a second like he stepped into a clone factory. But he finds Sam quickly enough, leaning up against the bar and better looking than anyone else in the room by a mile. 

It’s not comfortable, exactly. Sam’s suit costs more than Josh's rent and his haircut costs more than Josh's shoes. But he’s drinking the same shit beer they drank in Fargo, and when he slips a hand around Josh’s arm in a friendly-looking way that isn’t friendly at all and says, “Come back with me,” Josh still goes. Afterwards, lying in Sam’s big, expensive bed while Sam sleeps next to him and a million miles away, he whispers to himself, “Mighty Casey has struck out.” He leaves long before the sun is shining bright.  
  


* * *

_  
New York, 1997 _

When Josh walks out of Gage Whitney for the last time, he feels like Orpheus escorting Eurydice out of hell, like if he turns around to check if Sam is behind him all he’ll see is fragments of his image disappearing down the windowed hall. Away from Bartlet. Away from Josh. He doesn’t risk it until he hits pavement. 

Sam is behind him.

Josh isn’t sure what his face does when he turns around and sees Sam there. He’s pretty sure it’s fucking stupid. “Sam,” he says, and stops because he doesn’t know what comes next. 

Sam is grinning, which is how Josh figures out he is too. “Jesus, Josh, I have to - my stuff - ” But Sam starts laughing instead of finishing his sentence, and pretty soon he’s bent double with it. “God, I hated it there,” he says, wiping his streaming eyes. (It is actually really cold out. Josh should have let him grab his coat. But he couldn’t stop, couldn’t let - he couldn’t stop, is all.) “Do you know what the last thing I did was?” A chuckle escapes, like he might start laughing again in spite of himself. “I insured oil tankers.” Another chuckle. “So that when they fucking run aground, no one can sue them.” He’s laughing again by the end and Josh joins him, cackling at the sheer absurdity of it. Sam, who believes more deeply in the good in people than anyone Josh has ever met, was insuring oil tankers. “Ah, God,” Sam says after a minute. He sticks his hands in his pants pockets. That’s not a thing you’re supposed to do with expensive dress pants, Josh is pretty sure. 

Josh is still smiling. “So what do you wanna do with your newfound freedom?” he asks.

“I think,” Sam says, and pauses. “I think I wanna get drunk.” He starts laughing again. “And call my secretary and have her pack up my personal stuff, since I doubt they’ll let me back in the fucking building.”  
  


* * *

  
“He really is the real thing,” Josh says later, both hands wrapped around his pint. He and Sam are tucked in the back corner of an empty bar, because even the city that never sleeps doesn’t, on the whole, get drunk at 2 PM on a Wednesday. “He’s so - I mean, he’s gonna be difficult, every candidate is difficult. But I was gonna get  _ John Hoynes _ elected president, Sam, and now … ” He trails off. He’s smiling again, he’s pretty sure.

Sam is rolling his own pint back and forth between his palms. “So you know I said I’m getting married in September.” 

Josh takes a sip of his beer. It’s a large sip. “Yeah,” he says.

“I don’t actually - ” Sam cuts himself off, then sighs. Sips his drink. “The thing is,” he says. “The thing is, I asked her to marry me because I thought - I mean, we’ve been together a few years and, well - I was going to make partner.” He says the last bit through a strategic mouthful of French fries, but fortunately Josh has a lot of experience parsing the stuff Sam says with his mouth full. 

“Sorry?" Josh says. He needs to make sure he heard this right, that he’s not fully losing his mind. “Did you just say you asked Lisa to marry you because you were going to make partner?”

Sam ducks his head. “I know,” he says to the tabletop. “It’s bad.”

“It’s not great!” Josh says. He sprawls more fully into the booth, throwing his arm along the top and putting his feet up on Sam's side, between Sam and the wall. “Jesus.”

Sam nods. “It’s - we don’t get along that well anymore,” he says quietly. He’s still not meeting Josh’s eyes. “I don’t think she likes me very much. She’s very into, I don’t know, the hottest club and the coolest restaurant and … ” He sighs, waving a hand in the air. “She’s very into all that.”

Josh nods contemplatively. He can’t really feel his hands. That happens sometimes when he drinks, but he’s still on his first beer. So probably it's not because he’s drunk.

“The thing is,” Sam says quietly. “The thing is.” 

Josh waits, drinks, eats a few mouthfuls of French fries of his own. This largely to cover the fact that he’s pretty sure if he opened his mouth, what would come out would bear only the most passing resemblance to English.

“The thing is,” Sam says, again and finally, “my parents have been married for over two decades. My bosses are married, my mentors … it just seemed like … the thing to do.” He looks up. “You know?”

Josh does not know. Josh has been having a  _ lot _ of sex with men, and dating women disastrously, and not coming within a country mile of anything that could be considered a serious relationship. Not since the late 80s, which, if Josh starts thinking about the late 80s, he knows where this will end, and it can’t. So. “Sure,” he says. “God knows it’s not what I’ve been doing, but sure, I know what you’re talking about.” He doesn’t.

But Sam exhales heavily and looks relieved, like what he really needed to get through this conversation was the knowledge that Josh understood the bonehead logic Sam applied to his engagement. “I don't think she'll like this much,” he says, and now he's got a quiet grin where his expression had been tense. He looks up, meets Josh's eyes for the first time in a little while. 

Josh, for his part, feels pinned in place by Sam's gaze. Because the thing is, actually, this: Josh has been in politics the whole time Sam's been in big law, and he's good at it. He's actually kind of brilliant at it. And one of the reasons for that is that he understands precisely the boundaries of his job, how he fits inside them. What he is and isn't allowed to be. He knows how far he can push things and what it means to do so.

All of which is just a fancy way of saying that Josh might have been a little bit poleaxed by Sam's announcement that he was getting married, but if he hadn't known that Sam and Lisa were serious, he would never have even come to New York. 

He's not sure where the next hour goes, but eventually there's three empty glasses in front of  each of them, and Josh warms at the knowledge that Sam knows him well enough to unilaterally declare that it's time to stop. Sam calls for the check, and after he pays (“you're not even a government employee right now, Josh, you're basically an orphan in Oliver Twist, put your sad excuse for money away”), he drops his hand to the inside of the booth, where Josh has been reclining since Sam's announcement induced in him a need to sprawl. 

“Josh,” Sam says quietly. His hand has landed on Josh's ankle and he's begun gently stroking back and forth. No one can see. The advantage of the inside of the booth, which Josh had of fucking course foreseen, not that he’d admit it. 

He feels a little bit outside of his body, like those rare occasions when he's really drunk and looks in the mirror and sees himself through a stranger's eyes. Sam is working his way up Josh's leg by centimeters. It's only the slight dissociation that lets him pull himself to vertical, place both feet on the ground on his side of the table. “Sam,” he says, and he can hear himself like someone else is talking. “We can't.”

Sam's brow furrows. “I'm sorry,” he says quietly. “I thought - ”

Josh shakes his head, rakes a hand aggressively through his hair. “Yeah,” he says, harsher than he means it. “And I thought you were in a stable relationship. I thought - ” He exhales a hard breath, then counts back from five, trying to consciously soften his manner. “You know the only thing I have ever wanted to do is this,” he says, finally. He's staring at the woodgrain now, unable to look at the expression on Sam's face. “I want to get a man elected president. I've been working towards this for fifteen years. I want you with me, I  _ need _ you with me.” He chances a look up, and Sam's face is wide open. Josh’s eyes slip back down to the tabletop. “But we can't - we can't get a man elected president and be ... this.” His hand inscribes a meaningless shape in the air between them. 

Finally, Josh looks up for real, and Sam's face is soft. “Okay,” he says quietly. 

And that's it. They report to the campaign and Josh meets Mandy, whom he starts dating nearly immediately. Mandy is loud and calculating and pragmatic, very good at her job, and utterly unlike Sam. None of the campaign people know about him and Sam, which makes it safe to date Mandy. That works until it doesn’t. He then proceeds to make a general hash of things with Joey Lucas, who he knows in his bones is the only woman he’s ever met who could give Sam a run for his money; fall headfirst into a semi-functional relationship with Amy that he proceeds, with great care and self-loathing, to sabotage; and have an increasingly bizarre and unhealthy relationship with Donna. Sam, for his part, tries and fails to date Mallory, doesn’t try and somehow still fails to date Ainsley, and fails more or less globally at everything related to Laurie. 

It’s not exactly a banner half decade, but they only slip up twice the whole time, which is the part Josh chooses to focus on. The first time is on election night. Josh has been looking at Sam with completely undisguised hunger since the President (the President, the  _ President _ , Josh  _ got a man elected President _ ) got a paragraph into his victory speech. He’s amazed everyone in the room hasn’t figured out what’s going on. He’s staring so hard he’s amazed Sam’s clothes haven’t caught on fire. At something like four in the morning, both of them having drunk so much champagne that Josh should by rights be puking in a corner somewhere but instead he’s so wired on adrenaline that he feels stone cold sober, at something like four in the morning Sam throws an arm around Josh’s shoulders and presses a rough, messy kiss to the side of his head - all perfectly heterosexual and appropriate for the night Josh  _ got a man elected President _ \- but where anyone watching them probably thinks Sam follows it up with some kind of manly congratulations, what Sam actually says is, “Come upstairs with me.” 

Josh goes.

It’s so much like their first time that Josh almost gets deja vu, Sam’s hand between his head and the door as it slams shut, Sam’s hand spanning the space between his shoulder blades. Josh knows what he’s doing now, has been practicing these moves Sam taught him for fifteen years, but he still lets Sam drive. And Sam drives them right to the bed, where they make light-speed work of their own and each other’s clothes. Sam collapses on top of Josh with a groan, and his cock slides up next to Josh’s in a move that sends lightning up and down Josh’s spine.

It’s clear very quickly that they could both come just from this, the indescribable high of election night defeating their age (both of them on the back half of 35), and even more clear that they will if one of them doesn’t put a stop to things. Somehow it’s Josh, getting his hands between them and pushing Sam up so he can look him in the eye. “Seaborn,” Josh gasps, running a hand through Sam’s hair, “if you don’t get your dick in me I swear to god I will go find someone who will.” It’s not what he wants to say but it’s close enough. It gets the job done. 

When Sam slides into him it’s all Josh can do not to scream, literally biting a goddamn pillow to keep the sound in. Which is when Sam, who’s always been deceptively strong, gets an arm across Josh’s torso and pulls him vertical. The sudden movement drives him even deeper into Josh, tearing a sound from Josh’s throat that he tries and fails to cut off entirely. “No,” Sam growls into his ear, and jesus fuck, Josh isn’t going to last with Sam sounding like that. “I need to hear you. I’ve earned it. You’ve earned it. I don’t give a fuck who hears us.” And he proceeds to brace himself against the wall with his left arm, hold Josh up with his right, and fuck Josh like he’s being graded on it. Josh, for his part, slams his hands on top of Sam’s and just holds on. He’s not sure who’s touching him when he comes.

The second time is after Rosslyn, and it’s as different to the first as an adrenaline-soaked victory is to a long and painful recovery. Sam had been at the hospital, Josh had seen him, but it’s been a few days when he shows up at Josh’s apartment, alone but for a bag of Chinese takeout. He sits on the couch next to Josh as they eat, the distance between them clearly calibrated to broadcast “WE’RE JUST FRIENDS!” on a frequency designed for lovers. Josh gets through half a container of curry chicken and a number of egg rolls with Sam sitting at that precise distance before his patience hits a wall. 

Having been recently shot, his means for expressing impatience are reduced, so he does his best to put the Chinese food container down with some force and says, “Being shot isn’t contagious, you know.”

Sam’s head jerks up. “Sorry?” he manages, looking blindsided.

“I got shot,” Josh says. “I didn’t get the measles. You can - god, Sam, will you just come over here and touch me?”

Sam moves slowly, deliberately. He sets his container of salt and pepper shrimp on the table, turns to Josh and inches closer on the couch until his thigh is pressed against Josh’s and his arm has settled incredibly carefully around Josh’s shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I - I didn’t know how not to.”

Josh leans back a little - it hurts - and looks at Sam, really looks. His skin is a bad color and the circles under his eyes look like stage makeup. He looks like hell. He’s still the most beautiful man Josh has ever seen.

In all the many, many years Josh and Sam have been having sex, Josh has never started things. Sure, once he and Sam are already happening, he’ll reach for Sam, go down on Sam, tease him, sometimes even seduce him. But he’s never  _ started _ it. He’s never changed their default setting from ‘no’ to ‘yes,’ always leaving it to Sam to make the decisive move. But he just got shot and didn’t die, so what the hell. What the hell. 

Sam’s skin feels rough under his fingers. He guides Sam’s jaw, brings his mouth to his. He tastes like Chinese food and beer that Josh isn’t allowed to have. Sam kisses Josh with incredible tenderness and focus, the flip side of the aggressive dedication that was the first thing Josh noticed about him in bed. He turns his body so he’s facing Josh, twists as much as he can so that Josh doesn’t have to move. He just kisses him and kisses him, one arm tucked securely around Josh’s shoulders and the other coming to rest gently on his leg.

After many, many minutes, his hand migrates to Josh’s cock. It’s not disinterested, but Josh is on a lot of painkillers, and he breaks away from Sam’s relentlessly gentle mouth to tell him so. “It’s okay,” Sam says quietly, bending to kiss Josh’s throat. “If you like it, it’s okay.” Josh likes it.

He doesn’t know how long it takes for him to get hard, how much longer it takes for him to come. He knows it’s long enough that he spares a thought for Sam’s wrist, his jaw, his wrist again. He knows he tries to stop Sam at least twice, only to be very mildly threatened in a way Josh is pretty sure is inappropriate for someone who just got shot. He knows it’s far from the best orgasm he’s ever had, distracted as he is by holding his torso still even while he’s coming. But god, god, it’s Sam. It’s Sam pressing a kiss to Josh’s neck afterwards, in the same spot where he first gave Josh a hickey, and whispering something that sounds an awful lot like something they’ve never said. 

“What’s that?” Josh asks, because he’s a masochist.

“I said that I’m very glad you didn’t die,” Sam says, lifting his head from Josh’s neck to press a kiss to his forehead.

And that’s it. Twice in five years. Twice until Sam leaves the White House.  
  


* * *

_  
Washington, D.C., 2002 _

“We think you should run,” CJ tells Sam. 

Josh has spent the past hour unwillingly talking himself into agreeing with her, and while it’s not quite the out-of-body experience that was inviting Sam to work on the Bartlet campaign, it doesn’t lack for surreality. He’s never tried to convince Sam to walk away from him before. Sam, for his part, has spent the night as turned around as Josh has ever seen him, pelting around the White House and trying to get Will Bailey on the phone and generally avoiding standing still. Well, he’s standing still now.

In five years of working together, Josh has gotten pretty good at keeping it together where Sam’s concerned. They haven’t had any major slip-ups in two and a half years, and Josh can go days without entertaining what-ifs. He’s spent something like a year dating or trying to date Amy, and he genuinely likes her. More to the point, Josh spends a significant chunk of his life looking at and talking to and working with Sam, and it’s actually, mostly, fine. He made a deal with himself when he recruited Sam, and he’s by and large abided by it. He’s had to.

But right now, with the prospect of Sam leaving looming like a thunderhead, Josh wants nothing more than to tell his deal to go fuck itself. He wants to grab Sam and kiss him the way he used to. He wants to beg him to stay.

Amy has stopped talking, and Josh is standing next to her. He is fairly sure that means it's his turn.

“I think you’d energize the state party,” he says unconvincingly. It’s a useless comment and he knows it, and for a second he’s flooded with fierce resentment at being expected to say anything. But just like he’s done with so much else over the last Presidential term, Josh shoves the resentment down in favor of dealing with what’s happening in front of him. Sam is asking for counsel, and Josh is a senior advisor to the President. If he can stand in the Oval Office, he can stand in front of his ex-whatever the hell Sam is. ( _ Lover _ , his traitorous brain supplies.) So he pulls himself up a little straighter and says, “We’re not gonna let you look like a fool. We won’t allow it.”

Sam leaves to call Kay Wilde shortly thereafter, and the others take it as their cue. Amy kisses Josh on the cheek and says, “I need to go send more of your colleagues into poverty,” while Toby mutters something about Andie and scuttles off to do whatever divorced expectant fathers do. But Josh doesn't move out of his chair, utterly exhausted by the last several hours. He tips his head back, closes his eyes, and just breathes. 

His chair moves. He opens his eyes and sees CJ, foot resting on the arm and a friendly smile on her face. “Y’okay there, slugger?” she asks, and - 

Josh has never told any of these people about him and Sam. He’s never told anyone, at least not anyone he’s spoken to in the last ten years. He carries the knowledge of him and Sam the same way he carries everything else from his personal life: locked up tight, not to be examined until after Bartlet leaves office. And mostly that’s fine, mostly Josh doesn’t mind. It’s the cost of doing business, and it’s more than worth it to get to support a president worthy of the title. But it’s been a long fucking day, and at CJ’s question, Josh feels his chest crack open just a little bit. Just enough.

“You know I brought Sam onto the campaign,” he starts.

“Anyone within ten miles knew that,”CJ says, amusement clear in her voice. “You couldn’t shut up about it.”

“Yeah,” Josh says, smiling to himself. He can’t actually look at CJ while he does this, so he studies the knit of his trousers. “The thing is, when I went and got him, we … actually already had a history. By then.” 

He chances a look up and CJ’s smiling, almost indulgently. “A history,” she says. “Of what, robbing banks together? Overthrowing small countries? Making passionate love while the sun comes up?”

Josh just looks at her, his lack of response echoing between them. When the tumblers fall into place, she actually covers her mouth with her hand, as though trying to keep her previous words from escaping, and falls against the back of her chair like her strings have been cut. "Oh,” she finally says, faintly.

Josh goes back to examining his pants. “Anyway, when I came and got him to do this, he …  thought I was also getting him to do that. I wasn’t,” he adds, forestalling CJ’s inevitable questions. “I mean - I knew we couldn’t, not … ”

“Yeah,” CJ says quietly, and he knows she’s thinking of Danny Concannon.

“Anyway,” he says again. “It’s just really strange trying to convince him to leave.”

“Yeah,” she repeats after a moment. There’s a silence, and then she says, “Did you ever try to convince him to stay?”

Josh exhales heavily, air gusting out of his lungs, and tips his head back, counting ceiling tiles. “Once,” he says, very quietly. “We were in North Dakota.”

“How’d you do it?”

“A lot of blow jobs, mainly." He laughs in spite of himself. 

“Ah,” CJ says. She’s silent. Then: “So not really a portable strategy.”

“Not so much,” Josh agrees. He closes his eyes again, concentrates on the air flowing into and out of his lungs, and neither of them says anything for awhile.  
  


* * *

  
Sam loses spectacularly. The bizarre confluence of circumstances that allowed Wilde to win do not repeat for the special election, and Sam goes down in a blaze of glory that’s visible from space. Josh expects him to come back to Washington right away, but sometimes government bureaucracy lives up to its reputation: Sam’s supposed to be on leave for another few weeks. For reasons that are opaque to everyone - except Darryl in Personnel, who seems to understand them all too well - it’s much easier for Sam to stay out for his allotted time off than to try and come back early, so Sam opts to stay in California a little longer. Josh isn't disappointed. He figures if he tells himself that enough times, it'll be true. 

They talked briefly on election night but haven’t really touched base since. Josh has been expecting that they’ll debrief once Sam is slightly less bruised - even with the loss all but guaranteed, Sam had thrown himself body and soul into the campaign, and the loss hurt - so he’s not shocked when his phone rings about a week later. It’s 11:30 at night and he’s finally home, letting SportsCenter watch him before falling into bed for a restful five hours. Sam’s name on the caller ID causes him to sit up a little straighter. More precisely, it causes him to sit up.

“Hey man,” he says, adjusting the cushions under him. “How’s it going?”

“The thing is I’m in love you,” Sam replies, and Josh moves the phone away from his ear for a second and stares at it like he’s in a cartoon. 

“I’m sorry?” he manages finally.

“I'm in love with you," Sam repeats. "I’ve been in love with you to one degree or another since I met you. And I’ve tried not being with you, a lot more than I’ve tried being with you honestly, and I don’t like it. In fact I think it sucks. So what I’d like to do, what I thought we might do is I might try being with you. And see how that works for me."

It isn’t until Josh hears, "Josh? Josh, hello?" that he’s able to get himself together enough to say, "Yeah." He’s pretty sure he’s losing his mind. “Sam, I - ” He cuts himself off, no earthly clue how to proceed. His body is so flooded with stress hormones that he can feel his pulse in his eyeballs. “We both still work in Washington,” he settles on, because that’s been the beginning and end of the story for five years.

“I know," Sam says. "I don’t care. We’ll figure it out. People have before us, people a hell of a lot more prominent than we are. Presidents have figured it out, Josh. First Ladies.”

There’s a long pause. Then Josh says, slowly, “Did you just compare me to Eleanor Roosevelt?”

“She was a great woman, Josh.”

“Yeah, and a champion bull dyke!”

“Exactly my point.”

Josh breathes in and out. Then he says, “I heard they threw rocks at you.”

Sam snorts. “All but.” 

“I’m in love with you too, you know.”

“I thought you might have been.” The warmth in Sam’s voice is tangible three thousand miles away. Josh wants to live inside it.

“Come to Washington.”  
  


* * *

  
He wants to pick Sam up from the airport, but Sam's flight gets into National at 8 PM, so there isn’t a chance in hell. Instead, Josh leaves a key under his doormat - he buys a doormat to leave a key under - and starts coming out of his skin around 7:30. He's in with CJ, Leo, and Toby, and he doesn't realize how much he's fidgeting until Leo stops mid sentence to snap, "Jesus, Josh, switch to decaf!" 

Josh’s head snaps up from where he was scanning a memo that he’s pretty sure is in English, though it could be Persian. His language skills seem to have deserted him. "What?"

Leo glares pointedly at Josh's shoes. "Only you're doing a one-man 42nd Street, and I've had people killed for less."

Josh belatedly stills his feet and, in the process, his hands, which were drumming counterpoint on his kneecaps. "Sorry sir," he says. He gets through the rest of the meeting and has at least an hour more of work to do before he can get home, but he manages to be out the door by 9:30. He’s inspired by a phone call from Sam at 9:15 informing Josh that “I’m on your couch. You need a new couch.”

His stomach is turning over all the way home. There’s every reason they should work - if nothing else, the sex should be spectacular - but what if they don’t? What if the years ( _ decades _ , his mind supplies unhelpfully) of pining have built up expectations so high that no one could possibly meet them? He’s in a state by the time he gets home and unlocks his door, but he stops in his tracks on the other side of it, because Sam is  _ there. _ Sam is sitting on his wretchedly uncomfortable couch in a flannel button-down over a faded Yale t-shirt that Josh hasn’t seen in years, and he’s looking right at Josh.

“Hey,” Sam says. His smile is impossible.

“That - that’s my t-shirt,” Josh says. He still hasn’t moved.

“You left it at my place,” Sam says. 

“I left it at your place in the late 80s,” Josh says.

Sam nods. 

It’s not clear who moves first, but they collide in the middle of the room. Sam’s fingers are digging into Josh’s back and Josh’s hand is buried in Sam’s hair and fuck Westley and Buttercup, this kiss beats them all. Sam manages to get them into Josh’s bedroom, and Josh is going for his waistband when Sam gently moves his hand aside, whispers “let me,” and goes to his knees. Josh swears and, like so many times before, he just hangs on.

They do eventually make it to the bed, and that’s where they’re lying when Josh says, “We do actually have to talk about this.”

Sam nods. He’s drawing spirals on Josh’s stomach with his finger. “Work,” he supplies.

Josh nods. “Not that I don’t like your idea, but we do still both work in the White House. This isn’t the 60s and you’re not Marilyn Monroe.” 

“I’m prettier than Marilyn Monroe,” Sam says matter-of-factly, and Josh snorts.

“You might be, but my point stands,” he says. “We work in the White House. We’re going to need a plan.”

“Well,” Sam says, and he sounds uncharacteristically hesitant. “What if I … didn’t?”

Josh squints at him. “Sorry?”

Sam stills his hand and looks up, meeting Josh’s eyes. “Don’t get me wrong, Josh,” he says earnestly. “It’s been the thrill of a lifetime to work in this White House, to advise this president. You gave me that, and I’m forever grateful. But. ... I’ve loved you for such a long time.” He looks back down.

Josh, for once, has nothing to say. He just grabs Sam’s shoulder and pulls him higher up on the bed, where Josh can drape an arm across his chest and look his fill.

“You used to think I was better at being gay than you,” Sam says into the silence. 

Josh is starting to get the picture that life with Sam in his 40s, a Sam who’s being honest about everything, is going to involve playing a lot of conversational catch-up. “First of all, I’m not gay,” he says, because it might be beside the point but it’s the truth, “and second of all, yeah.” Because, well. Also that.

“Because I was more experienced than you when we first got together, and also because you're an idiot who thinks being gay is something you can be graded on,” Sam continues.

“Hey!” Josh protests. “I object to the second half. But … yeah. To the first."

Sam is quiet for a long moment. “You know, I’ve thought a lot of times that if I had just said ‘go’ in North Dakota, if I’d just … ”

He trails off, but Josh gets the picture, and at this point he has nothing to lose by being totally honest. “ … Yeah.”

“Which is why you were wrong,” Sam says. “About who was better at it. You were _ ready _ , Josh. You were ready to figure it out, even though it was insane. Whereas I went and joined Dewey Ballantine and got engaged to Lisa.”

Josh shifts away a little bit in order to see Sam more clearly. “So it wasn’t about Lorraine. Why you left after the win,” he clarifies. “You didn’t leave because of Lorraine.”

“No, it was absolutely about Lorraine,” Sam says. “She was a terrible candidate who had no business within five hundred feet of Congress. But I could’ve gone to Washington with you. I could’ve found something to do that I felt good about. I was just scared out of my mind. I mean Jesus, Josh. I would have married Lisa if you hadn’t come and brought me to New Hampshire.”

Josh nods. After a long moment, he says, “Are you gay?”

“No,” Sam says. “I really liked Mallory. If I wasn’t - I could have made something work with her, in a different life. Like you and Joey.”

“I’d’ve had to learn another language,” Josh says. “I mean more than just finger-spelling, I would have had to learn to sign.”

“She’s worth it.”

“She is. But it was never going to work, anyway.”

Sam hmm’s in response. “Because you like this more.” He pulls Josh closer.

“Because  _ you _ like this more,” Josh responds.

Sam chuckles into his hair. “I do,” he confirms. And that’s pretty much that; that’s pretty much all there is to say. 

**Author's Note:**

> I have now watched The West Wing mumblemumble times, and there are aspects of it that do not improve with age, Josh chief among them. He's arrogant and douchey, and to quote my own dad, “Every woman should beat Josh with a baseball bat. With nails in it.” How Josh became my sad romantic protagonist I do not know. I don't even ship Sam and Josh. This fic happened to me far more than I can be said to have written it; I was just along for the ride. 
> 
> Mudville 9 is a real bar. I went in there once to use the bathroom and had exactly the experience I gave Josh. Financial District bars are weird, man. Do not recommend. 
> 
> I understand that the symptoms of drunkenness I gave Josh, dissociation and losing feeling in his hands, may make it sound like I have never had a drink in my life. But speaking as an incorrigible lightweight, those are two of the ways I know I am fucked the fuck up. Bodies are weird, particularly when they've been mildly poisoned. 
> 
> The scene between Sam and Josh after Rosslyn is a bit of an homage to FabulaRasa's [War Criminals](https://archiveofourown.org/works/253455), which, like everything she writes, is likely to be the best thing you'll read for some time. If you haven't read it yet, I can't imagine what you are waiting for. The pairing is unconventional, but she sells it, as she does everything. If the main thing this fic does is steer more readers her way, it was worth writing.
> 
> Thanks for reading. I did not expect this fic, and I'm very proud of how it worked out.


End file.
